IV: Art thou come again in search of roses…

Art thou come again in search of roses, thou seller of flowers!
That not a bird of the parterre ceaseth lamentation to make?

A bubble of the broad ocean is every one of its bells:
The kar-wan moveth along silently, this desert within.

In its desire to attain it, with its own blood it became tinged;
Yet still Both not the ruby reach unto the lobe of the ear?

Sometimes rising, sometimes falling, like the Pleiades they go:
How many inebriated ones have from thy banquet gone forth?

For thy sake, I would dye my garment of the colour of the rose;
Still, like unto perfume, it would from my bosom escape.

Draw near, and behold the black intoxication of her tresses,
That without the shoulder, cannot proceed a step on the road.

The heart of the vortex like unto a millstone might split;
Since fortune, towards Shaida, hath so unrelenting become!